


No Longer Cared About Proving Anyone Wrong

by compo67



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Bottom Jared, Explicit Sexual Content, Genderfluid, Genderqueer, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jared in Panties, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Panties, Physical Abuse, Prostitution, Queer Themes, Rape/Non-con Elements, Top Jensen Ackles, Topping from the Bottom, Underage Sex, Young Jared Padalecki, genderqueer!Jared
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2017-12-26 03:33:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill for a SPN Kink prompt from this month. This is the original prompt: Jensen picks up a young (16-17) hustler named Jared one night, takes him to a hotel and fucks him. A few nights later, he's back looking for Jared and finds him badly beaten and raped. [Completed.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Kid

**Author's Note:**

> Taking a small break from It Takes, I wrote this fill. Hurt!Jared is my favorite Jared (can't you tell?). 
> 
> Jensen is 21 in this fic and Jared is 16. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

He was going to prove them wrong.

He wasn’t boring and white bread and on the straight edge; those assholes had no idea what they were talking about, _who_ they were talking about. Yeah, his daddy was a strict, religious fundamentalist, but Jensen had spent some time in Hollywood. Los Angeles changed a person. For as much as Jensen advertised and emphasized his homegrown Texas look, he wasn’t the same kid from the suburbs anymore. He had six more months to prove to his parents that he could make it on his own as an actor—the year Alan had given him was almost up—and while Jensen wasn’t too worried (not yet, anyway), he was disturbed by what they’d called him that evening.

Part of the deal was that Jensen had to make it on his own entirely. This meant there was no check coming in from Richardson every month; Alan had insisted that if Jensen wanted to give up his life to the superficial and sinful ways of commercial success, he’d had to go it on his own. Family money would not fund his escapades in Los Angeles. His mother called every week and every week she offered to come get him. As much as he loved his mother, he had to finish the year at the very least.

So to make ends meet, he worked at a diner and found small parts in between his shifts.

The diner was posh and trendy during the day, really working the whole vintage feel, but at night it turned into something different. Jensen preferred not to work night shifts. There was a popular gay bar a block down and after last call, the diner was busy. It wasn’t that Jensen technically had a problem with gay people or queer people in general. They were just so loud and flashy and downright obnoxious. After getting his ass grabbed multiple times in the course of just an hour—and the kids didn’t tip _that_ well—Jensen requested days and evenings only.

Unfortunately, after a gig where he’d said an entire four lines, the crew only wanted to go to his diner. It was close enough and the food was still decent at two in the morning. Then the teasing had started. Several of the guys—actors, crew, staff—started to joke about Jensen’s wholesome good looks. Then it turned into a contest, trying to name the most exciting events in Jensen’s life. Their answers were: reading the Bible, meeting Ayn Rand, and golfing. Jensen wanted to punch each and every one of them and then hide from everyone forever.

He’d slept with a couple of guys, fumbling around in the dark in summertime Texas heat, but that was the most adventurous he’d ever gotten. And he was not about to share that with a group of bros intent on humiliating him. He wasn’t about to share that with anyone _ever_ because he was a good son and one day he’d get married and do that whole kind of thing.

Flippantly, one of the guys catcalled one of the girls from across the diner.

She was tall and leggy and even Jensen appreciated her ass. Especially on those heels.

“Forget it,” she laughed and waved their table off.

“Hey honey, c’mon, I’ll use a rubber!” one of the camera guys hollered. Jensen sighed, frustrated by the company he’d chosen tonight. He thought that going out with them might lead to some kind of networking, maybe one of them would be able to get him a part with more than four lines of script.

“Ten rubbers on your nasty dick and I still wouldn’t feed it to a dog,” she snapped and went back to talking to her friends. She leaned forward and Jensen ached. He was supposed to save himself for marriage. It was too late, but the thought was still with him and created guilt. Guilt and arousal seemed to be tied together for him.

Tired of the table full of people who just mocked him, Jensen got up, threw down some money, and left with a few grumbled goodbyes. No one went after him or asked him to stay longer.

When he stood outside, smoking out his frustration—also a sin—someone walked up to him.

“Hey,” a light voice sounded. “Can I bum one?”

It was the girl from before. Only, closer, Jensen could see that she was clearly a dude. A very young, very illegal dude to be thinking about the way he had been before.

“Let me see some ID,” Jensen grumbled.

“Wow, you are as prissy as you look.” She—he—took off the wig, revealing messy brown hair. He ran his fingers through it and left it looking even more out of place. He smiled easy, dimples showing, an innocence there Jensen wasn’t sure was faked by years of practice or stupid naiveté. “I’ll cut to the chase. Your pals in there paid me twenty bucks to come out here and tell you the business I do.”

“And that would be?”

“I’ll suck your dick for another twenty,” he chirped, taking Jensen’s cigarette pack, pulling one out with elegant hands and lighting up quickly. “A fuck will cost you sixty, upfront, no refunds if you chicken out and can’t get it up. Thanks.” The pack was passed back. “So? Am I wasting my valuable time?”

An underage hooker just told him their time was valuable after taking not one but three cigarettes from him. Jensen could hear the guys inside, plotting out the rest of his life, never deviating from The American Dream.

He’d show them.

 

At first, Jensen had fully intended on taking the hooker to a hotel, but the more he thought about it, the more he didn’t care. So what if this kid had a pimp or broke into his tiny studio and stole his guitar. And at first, he’d planned on just taking the kid to his place, talking for a bit, then paying him and letting him leave.

So he wasn’t quite sure how the kid’s long, toned legs had ended up wrapped around his waist.

“Jesus, fuck,” Jensen groaned, rocking forward, the cheap bed creaking. “What…”

“Quit talking, just shut up, wait no… that accent… oh!” the hooker panted and forced Jensen’s hips down. “You’re two seconds away from coming already?!”

Jensen blushed and shrugged. “You’re just… that good?”

A laugh, framed by dimples, sounded clear. “Gee, thanks. I have a feeling you’re a one round kind of guy. Can we do this my way?”

“You’re the expert,” Jensen muttered. He had the kid on his lap, but he didn’t move. Jensen tried not to look the kid in the eye. The one time he dared, right after his expert comment, he saw a tiny bit of hurt. It was quickly brushed aside though.

They kept the same position, Jensen’s cock buried deep. He’d expected maybe a little looseness or give, since the kid supposedly did this often, but the hole was tight and hot and when the kid applied pressure in just the right angles, Jensen never wanted to leave. He’d had good sex before but this was pretty good; it wasn’t clinical or awkward. He had to stop thinking.

“Listen to my voice,” the kid purred into his ear. “Follow my directions. If you don’t, I’ll stop and leave you to finish with your hand.”

Jensen nodded. He was pushed back a little, so that he was propped up against the headboard, laid out, knees bent up. The kid wrapped his arms around Jensen’s neck. He smelled like cherry chap stick and hairspray. His beautiful mouth remained pressed near Jensen’s ear.

“Move, push up,” he commanded lightly. “That’s it. Slow. Yeah, slow like that.”

He had the urge to pin the kid down and fuck him hard, finish harder.

But this was nice. Long fingers were playing with his hair and scratching his back. Jensen breathed out and kept his hands on the kid’s pert ass.

After a minute both of them stopped talking completely. The kid had initiated a rhythm that was tortuously, perfectly slow and intense. He communicated commands with his hips, squeezing and clenching and using all of his muscles. When he allowed Jensen to thrust up at a faster pace, he placed one hand on Jensen’s, then moved it to his own cock. The kid was nearly as big as Jensen, with balls that hung heavy. Jensen groaned, stroking the kid, watching the muscles in the kid’s stomach work.

They slowed down once more and the kid spread his legs out as much as he could, thighs trembling. Both of them were sweating now. Jensen felt his cock throb when pressure was applied at a different angle. The kid’s hips moved in languid circles, stuttering a few times when the blunt head of Jensen’s cock hit his prostate. The hitches in his breath when that happened turned Jensen on even more. He grabbed the kid by the hair and pulled him down. They didn’t kiss but they did stay plastered together, forehead to forehead.

Instead of riding up and down Jensen’s cock, the kid stayed sitting on, only rocking back and forth on it. It made Jensen’s orgasm build and build and build, until he felt pressure everywhere in his body. He opened the kid’s ass and felt himself there. The kid whined and closed his eyes, mouth hanging open.

Finally, a command was spoken.

“Come,” the kid sighed, burying his face in Jensen’s neck, keeping his hips down, forcing Jensen to come without thrusting. Because he did obey and even through the condom, Jensen felt everything. He felt every twitch and spurt of his cock, every ounce of pressure push from his balls and up, the pleasant buzz of his spine, and the wind knock out of him as he keened his finish. He also felt every part of the kid, the trembling of his innermost walls, those heavy balls tighten up, and his cock begin to shoot, untouched, all over Jensen’s stomach. The kid was mostly silent, except for a gasp when Jensen started to jerk him off right after that first orgasm. If the kid was as young as he seemed, this would be no problem. This time Jensen took over. He wasn’t that hard, but he was hard enough to stay inside the kid and hit his prostate with one, two, three hard thrusts.

“Coming, coming,” the kid panted and tensed up all over. When he started shooting again, he relaxed, hands on Jensen’s shoulders. Ropes of come stretched from Jensen’s lower stomach all the way up to his nipples. There was a tiny pool on his neck and he was surprised by the amount of come the kid produced.

“Sorry,” was the first time the kid ever apologized to Jensen for anything, which seemed significant. He pushed Jensen’s hand off his cock and got up, Jensen slipping from his ass like nothing at all. The kid grabbed some tissues from the nearby nightstand and handed them to Jensen. Both of them were still trembling but neither wanted to admit it.

Now things were awkward.

Too slow and stupid to realize what was going on, Jensen didn’t mind the kid going through his wallet, taking out sixty dollars and setting it back down on the nightstand.

Hesitating, the kid looked at Jensen.

“Can I take an extra twenty for a cab?” he whispered in a tone Jensen hadn’t heard before.

“Yeah,” Jensen grunted. He rolled over and gave the kid the extra twenty.

As deftly as the kid had taken cigarettes from Jensen outside the diner, he got dressed and left, heels clacking on the hardwood floor.

He wanted to prove something but he couldn’t remember what it was anymore.

And he wanted to stay awake and think about everything—he hadn’t gotten a fucking name—but sleep won out. He did remember his dream though, unlikely to forget it.

 

For two weeks, Jensen barely slept. He wanted to say that it was because he was so busy chasing gigs and working on his method. Or even to say that he was just picking up extra shifts at the diner and making some extra money.

But no, just like out of his sister’s trashy romance novels—the ones she hid from their parents but he knew all about—he couldn’t forget the kid.

Hoping that the kid frequented the diner late at night, Jensen picked up two night shifts.

Nothing.

He even went to the actual club and convinced himself that he wasn’t creepy, he was just concerned. He just wanted to know the kid’s name. Just wanted to see him again.

There are millions of people in Los Angeles. Everyone’s business is everyone’s business. Jensen hadn’t fully understood that saying until now. The kid could hide from Jensen forever if that was what he wanted; there was no way to find him. Maybe the kid wasn’t even from LA; maybe he was like Jensen, a kid from some suburbs somewhere, passing through, making some money on the side.

A month passed and Jensen started to worry. He didn’t care that he hadn’t gotten more than bit parts or that he wasn’t spending as much time networking or auditioning as he should have been.

He just didn’t believe it was possible to meet someone and… and feel that way, feel this way…and never see them again.

So one night, when he got back to his apartment late after spending hours in the gym running and boxing his emotions out, he tripped over something outside the door. Instinctively, Jensen kicked at it. When he heard a very real, very human groan of pain, Jensen started panicking. It was a body. It was a person. A person covered in rags and filthy blankets covered in old, crusty blood.

Sometimes homeless people squatted in the apartment hallways but it had never happened to Jensen or any of his neighbors.

“Hey buddy, you… are you okay?” Jensen nudged what he thought was the person’s shoulder with his shoe. “I’m gonna call 911, okay? They’ll take care of you.”

By the light of his cellphone, Jensen caught a glimpse of something. It was that ratty wig with pink streaks in it. He dropped down to his knees and pushed past his hesitations. He uncovered the person. He prayed that this wasn’t…

“Don’t call the cops,” a small, broken voice pleaded through the blankets. “Warrant… out…”

“What happened!” Jensen shouted. The kid was almost unrecognizable. He’d been beaten in the most cruel manner, with layers of blood and bruises all over, even on his cheeks right near those dimples.

His right eye was swollen shut, ugly and black and puffy, while the other was rimmed with red. Jensen guessed that the kid wasn’t able to see. “I can go,” the kid whispered, moving his head in the direction of Jensen’s breathing.

“You can go? Can you even fucking walk?! Or did you make too much money tonight?!”

Instantly, Jensen regretted that.

The more he looked, the more he saw little pieces of the puzzle. Blood marks were on the floor; the kid dragged himself, crawled to Jensen’s door. The state and stench of the blankets told Jensen that this wasn’t a one night situation. And the way the kid could not move, especially his lower half, told him something even worse.

“I’m sorry,” Jensen said, the first apology he’d ever said to the kid. Carefully, he touched the kid, fingers on his cheek. “Don’t go.”

They couldn’t stay in the hallway; they couldn’t even stay in Jensen’s apartment. Because he knew, without having to ask, what had happened. The details and specifics didn’t matter. A few girls at the diner talked about a woman’s clinic that was open 24/7, not too far from the diner. Jensen didn’t own a car but he could call a cab.

“I’m getting a cab and taking you to a clinic,” Jensen said softly. “I’ll stay with you and then you can come back with me and… tell me your name, okay? Sound good?”

There was a hesitant nod. Jensen called a cab and scooped the kid up, careful and steady.

As they waited outside, Jensen felt the kid start to cry. He made his hold on the kid firmer.

“Jared,” the kid whispered. “My name’s Jared.”

Jensen thought about how he’d wanted to prove something to everyone in his life; to his family, to his friends, to the people he worked with. Standing outside without a clue in the world about what would happen, what they would do… Jensen smiled and shook his head. Funny how his world had become “they” instead of “he.”

“Jared, it’s good to meet you,” Jensen replied, a tenderness in his voice he did not recognize. “I’m Jensen.”


	2. Guidance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right after chapter one, Jensen reflects on how lost he is and how much he has to learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> getting back into this verse! does anyone have any suggestions as to what direction they'd like it to go into? what you'd like to see?
> 
> changed the tags a bit!

It turned out that Jensen had no idea what he was doing.

Well, he knew that before, but now he truly _knew_ he had no idea what he was doing.

Apparently, the look on his face told this truth to the staff at the women’s clinic. Since Jensen wasn’t a blood relative or technically the kid’s boyfriend, he wasn’t allowed to visit for a day. He was able to see that he was checked in properly and had his own room, but that was it. Walking through the lobby, one of the staff members stopped him.

“Here,” she said, placing a pamphlet in his hand. She was tiny and had brown eyes and an air about her that instantly told Jensen she could kick his ass without any trouble. “Read this before you come back tomorrow.”

“Uh, okay,” Jensen replied, tucking it into his back pocket for the long walk back to his apartment. “Thanks.”

She smirked and shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Maybe then you won’t look so completely clueless. Have a good night.”

He couldn’t argue with that point, so he smiled, nodded, and headed back.

Out of cab money, the first rain in two months started to fall as he reached the sidewalk.

 

Initially, he thought about skimming the pamphlet. How difficult could this all be? The kid had to know that what had happened was wrong and it shouldn’t be done again. He had to have known, whenever it was that he started turning tricks and living out the _Pretty Woman_ dream, that doing that would come with consequences and risks.

Oh, he was so wrong.

He opened the pamphlet and read it, word for word, front to back.

Then he got his phone, which was the only really nice thing he had, and opened up a page for Google. Frustrated with what he found, he grumbled and paced around his studio, shoulders bristling in agitation. He’d been a decent student in high school, how difficult could this shit be?

It was one in the morning when he broke down and called his sister.

 

There were a lot of things that Jensen gave his little sister credit for. She was twice as book smart as he was, for one, and took no shit from no one, all while being able to pull off the perfect Texan girl next door image.

He’d watched _Beauty and the Beast_ with her not that long ago and here she was, lecturing him on how terrible it was for him to victim-blame and that he needed to use the term rape survivor, not victim. This was apparently a subject he needed to give her credit for as well. For two hours, note pad and a pen in front of him, he tried to make sense of everything she was telling him. He had to stop her when she started ranting about how the patriarchy’s deliberate use of the term victim instead of survivor and how rape was not exclusively a women’s issue.

“Mac,” he pleaded, voice rough with fatigue, “I just wanna know how not to be an asshole tomorrow, okay? This is all great but…” he let out a long yawn. “I got a shift in the morning too.”

The eye roll he received was as if she were in the same room. She gave a little sister sigh and assured him that he seemed to have a preliminary grasp of the material and that much of what he had to remember were three things, which she made him repeat.

“Uh…” Jensen nervously flipped through his chicken scratch. “One: rape is not about sex, it’s about control. And uhm… two: no one ever asks for… it, asks for it. Three: it’s not the survivor’s fault, ever. Hey, aren’t two and three kinda similar?”

“You dumb fuck,” she hissed, which startled him. “They’re completely different. Ugh, Jenny, you’re too much of a dudebro to understand this shit, aren’t you?”

“Hey, mom and dad taught me how to be nice to girls,” he insisted.

“That’s not enough,” was snapped in response. “It ain’t worth shit being nice to anyone if that’s how you’re gonna treat ‘em because they don’t wanna have sex tonight. Jenny, your friend sounds like they need a lot of help but it still wasn’t their fault, even if they are a sex worker.”

Jensen sighed and rubbed his temples. “Okay, okay, I’m trying, Mac. But what if he was by himself, he shouldn’t have been by himself in a neighborhood like that. He should’ve gone to a shelter or something.”

“Jensen fuckin’ Ackles!” she shouted into his ear. “Have you lost your damn mind? Where is your head, boy? Ugh. Look, I have to go, mom’s gonna kick my ass if she finds out I’ve been using up my minutes instead of studying.”

“It’s like... one in themorning there, why the hell are you studying now?”

“Shut up Jenny!” she huffed and he heard papers rustling in the background. “Think of it like this, okay? Just try to think of it like this: instead of teaching people how not to get raped, we should teach people _not_ to rape. Did you write that down? Should I talk a little slower for you?”

Grumbling, he said no, he was fine, he got it and good night and…

“Thanks,” he murmured with a sigh, rubbing his face with his free hand. “Can I call again?”

“Jenny,” she snipped, he could see her nose scrunching, “you can always call me. Won’t kill your manly machoness to call a girl you’re related to once in a while. Good luck, try not to fuck shit up, okay?”

He left promising her that he would try his hardest to not fuck shit up.

 

There were certain things Jensen was expected to be as a Texan boy. He was expected to have a love for all things Western and cowboy related, which he did. He was expected to love ranching and a good barbeque and beer, which he did. He was expected to believe in God, faith, and family the way his father taught him, which he… well he had.

If his father knew about his… nocturnal activities with other men… Jensen was sure he’d be given an ending worthy of any spaghetti western faceoff.

There were so many things he _had_ to be for his family, his friends, his job, his few shots at his acting career… that he wasn’t completely sure who he was when he wasn’t pressured. These were the kinds of thoughts twisting him up inside, making his stomach roll, while he was working the lunch hour at the diner. Every plate nauseated him and he nearly threw up in the back room.

What were they going to do? He didn’t have enough money to splurge on another cab, so he would have to walk or take three buses to the clinic. With cash that tight, how were they going to make it once the kid was out? When he realized he just assumed the kid would stay with him, he grew even more agitated with himself. Was his sister right? Did all men just feel like they were entitled to shit?

He could practically hear her grumbling that that was _not_ what she had meant.

Dropping off table ten’s order, Jensen set down their plates and refilled their coffees. He turned up the charm even though he felt like shit under a pile of shit, giving the ladies at the table extra wide smiles and letting his drawl hang with them. He called each one of them ma’am. At the end, he picked up a twenty dollar tip. It was at least enough for the buses and something extra.

 

The same lady who gave him the pamphlet checked him in at the clinic, gave him a visitor’s badge and patted him down, then led him through the hallways.

“I’m Gen,” she murmured, tapping at her name tag then flipping through papers on a purple clipboard. “Jay’s in room three-twelve. He’s recovering alright but I won’t disclose more information without him present. Did you read the pamphlet I gave you?”

The pamphlet and his notes were in his back pocket. “Yeah, thank you.”

“Learn anything new?”

“Guess we’ll see,” he breathed as they reached the room. Why was he nervous? He’d had three bus rides to contemplate what he would say to the kid, it shouldn’t be so difficult. Gen nodded and knocked three times, pausing to hear a small, “Come in” from the other side before she opened the door.

The room was tiny but airy, with only the essentials inside. There was a window that overlooked a community garden, which made it seem like this was a room anywhere but a clinic. Jensen had been told that there were ten rooms like this, and that most of the time all were full, but they’d gotten lucky last night and this one was vacant. The kid had been treated by a doctor then brought here to recover.

“Brought you a buddy,” Gen announced, waving Jensen in. “Looks like he bought you flowers.”

It was stupid, he realized, to bring flowers. Like there was anything flower-appropriate for this. But it was the only thing he could think of. The kid had two more days in the clinic; Jensen figured the flowers might cheer up the room. And flowers were all he could afford until he got his next check from the diner or another gig lined up. He cleared his throat and held them out awkwardly, before he stepped forward and placed the bouquet in the kid’s lap.

“I’m allergic,” the kid said simply.

“Oh, fuck,” Jensen groaned. “Sorry, I didn’t…”

“I was joking, duh,” the kid snipped with a small smile. He held the bouquet for a moment before handing them to Gen. “Arrange them for me?”

“But of course,” she answered with a smirk. “You okay if I go do that and leave you two to talk?”

Jensen and the kid looked at each other for a moment; the kid nodded to Gen, who left and shut the door.

The kid was covered in bruises, dotted in stitches. His face was swollen, but he didn’t seem to be in much pain. It looked like someone had helped him take a shower and they’d gotten all the knots out of his hair.

“Why’re you here?” was asked of Jensen after two minutes of silence.

Damn the kid was direct. He fidgeted in the one chair the room had. “Uh… I wanted to see how you were,” he replied, going with the most honest and to the point answer. “How are you?”

With a snort, the kid rolled his eyes and lay back in the hospital bed. “Oh great, here you are, my Richard Gere, right? Come to climb up my fire escape and whisk me off to New York, yeah? Think you can save me from the gutter?”

It took a moment or two for Jensen to find any words. His mouth hung open.

There was a knock at the door and the kid grumbled a reply.

Gen walked in, the flowers in a simple vase. Her smiled faded when she saw the state of the room. Carefully, she placed the vase on the nightstand and went over to Jared’s bedside. “So… what’s going on? Jay?”

“Nothing,” the kid hissed. “He was leaving.” His arms were crossed over his chest and he wasn’t looking at Jensen anymore, not even in the same direction.

“But…” Jensen started.

“You were leaving!”

Jensen flinched at the sudden shouting. He quickly got up and scrambled for the door, before the vase and flowers could be hurled at him or worse. One small glance over his shoulder he could see that the kid was set in his insistence. Leaving. Leaving was good.

He hung around in the hallway for five minutes, wringing his hands. How had things gone so wrong? Why hadn’t he said anything? Not one fucking word came out of his stupid mouth.

Right before he was set to leave, Gen appeared out of the room, closing the door before she joined him. They both leaned against the wall, to the side, not blocking anyone’s way in passing.

“Jay’s… a tough old bird,” she sighed.

“I’m not expecting an apology, it’s okay.”

“Good because you’re not likely to get one.”

“’salright.”

“Would you come back in two days?”

“Come back?” Jensen asked, pushing himself off the wall. “For what?”

She smiled like she knew something; like she could see right through him. “You care. The ones that read the pamphlet always do.”

It was with a deep sigh that Jensen shook his head. “I’m not here lookin’ to be Richard Gere. I just… you know, I have no fuckin’ idea what I’m doing?”

To that, she laughed. “Admitting that is a good step. Come back in a couple days. See me at the front first and I’ll let you know if everything’s all clear.”

“How do you know I’ll have any chance at an all clear?” he asked and watched as she began to walk away, arms swinging.

“I don’t,” she said with a small laugh. “But you were the first person he asked for when he woke up and the only one on his visitor’s sheet. Give him a little time and learn to do it, because he’ll need it in the future.” She turned but glanced back. “Ten in the morning, don’t be late.”

“No ma’am,” Jensen replied honestly.

He had no idea what he was doing, but at least he had people who did.


	3. Make that Money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jensen's living arrangements change, he's broke, and the rent is due. All of this and he is trying not to be an asshole. It's a little overwhelming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't stop listening to "Counting Stars" by One Republic. That was a lot of the fuel behind this chapter. 
> 
> I've changed the direction of this fic to genderqueer!Jared. 
> 
> I think many cis, white men aren't taught about rape, victim blaming, trauma, and gender fluidity. Top that off with a conservative background and damn--Jensen has to really work at unlearning/relearning a lot. Trying to make sure that all comes through in this fic. I don't think it would be very realistic if he automatically "got" it. 
> 
> Comments are love. <3

The first three days out of the clinic are spent sleeping.

Well, the kid sleeps. Jensen goes to work and picks up as many hours as he can. Someone had to pay for the clinic bill and Gen brought it to Jensen first before mentioning anything to the kid, for which he’s grateful but now out of rent money and the rent is due in a week. Even if he Southern-charmed every table he still wouldn’t make enough. He hopes to grab a tiny part in anything—even a god damned herpes commercial at this point—but he doesn’t get callbacks.

At the end of his first ten hour day he finds the kid sleeping, curled up in a nest of blankets Jensen never took out from his trunk. They’re crocheted blankets his grams made for him and insisted he bring with, even though he told her he was moving out to Los Angeles, not Minnesota.

For the first night, Jensen lets the kid do as he wants, which means sleeping in that nest on the floor, unmoving and quiet, except for the steady snuffles and huffs of his breathing.

On the second night, Jensen persuasively, carefully, moves the kid from the floor and onto his bed. He gives the kid a lot of physical space and makes his own nest nearby, settling in for the evening with a paper, trying to find some kind of extra work.

The third night is a little more active. Jensen manages to coax one of the cooks to mess up an order then box it up for him; he places the modest feast on a tray and presents it to the kid, who hasn’t left Jensen’s bed and is starting to… well, smell. His eyes are rimmed with dark bags and his hair is greasy. When the kid finishes half of a takeout box and goes back to sleep, Jensen spends two hours on the phone with his sister.

Most of her advice is based on the fact that things will take time and Jensen has to try really hard at not being an asshole.

“I’m a charming Texan boy,” he tried crowing at her.

She made a noise of disgust from her line. “Jenny, that’s the _worst_ kind of asshole.”

For the time being, he was classified as a work in progress.

He counts it as a start, at the very least.

 

Five days into their somewhat awkward, very tense living situation and Jensen comes back to the studio to find it clean. Like, not even picked up clean, but _clean_. The kind of clean no twenty-something dude even understands. He isn’t a pig—his momma did teach him right—but damn he forgot what the floor looked like not covered in blankets and laundry. The kitchen looks brighter because all the counters have been wiped and there’s not a dirty dish anywhere.

The kid is perched on Jensen’s bed, wrapped up in a blanket, watching something British on Jensen’s laptop. He looks up then looks away, burrowing into his crocheted cocoon.

Jensen cautiously walks over, slipping off his sneakers, and sits on the floor. It’s got to be some period piece judging by the language and music. He’d kill for a decent period piece, especially if it meant some great scenery experience. Yeah the acting was great but location mattered. Not that he had much choice being at the bottom of the barrel but still. He could appreciate British scenery and cinematography. They just had so much to work with.

A voice breaks his film-nerd train of thought.

“It’s the BBC Pride and Prejudice,” the kid murmurs. “It’s my favorite.”

Somewhat shocked by the sudden speech, Jensen is very awkward and nearly bashes his head against the laptop in an effort to turn and look at the kid. “Yeah, I thought it sounded… like… you know, a period piece.”

Hazel eyes are soft and unguarded for the first time. Jensen prays that they stay that way for a little while longer.

“Would you be Darcy or Bingley?” the kid asks, his tone light.

Jensen smiles. “I don’t know. Never read or seen it.”

“Maybe you should,” the kid starts to say, then realizes something Jensen can’t pinpoint. His eyes harden and the laptop is shut. “I’m going out.”

The kid stands up and sheds the blankets to reveal an outfit Jensen can’t believe was under a pile of crotched blankets. There’s a tiny, sequined skirt, a halter top, and black tights; the kid’s poured into it all, everything at least a size too small. Jensen goes from turned on to shotgun-dad in thirty seconds. All of his questions are ignored and the kid just walks out, heels clacking, silver purse slung over his shoulder. There are fake breasts in that halter top. Jensen can’t immediately wrap his head around any of this and he hasn’t got the time. Grabbing his keys and shoving his sneakers on, he follows.

At least there’s no vase to throw at him this time.

 

The club is in an abandoned warehouse, where someone cleverly turned the conveyor belts into dance floors. The belts don’t move but people dance on them anyway, elevated and on display. The operations manager’s office, looking out on the floor, was turned into one of three bars in the place.

Of course the music is the latest pop tracks and it’s drilling into Jensen’s skull.

But the kid dances to it like it’s fuel.

There are small, intricate moves the kid does with his hips that attract people’s attention. And those long legs—accentuated in black leather boots—do him all the favors. Every time his arms raise up in time to the pounding of the music around them, the halter top pushes his chest up and out.

The kid knows Jensen’s watching from the ground.

People start to notice this kid, who they think is a girl, who they _know_ is a girl. Jensen’s ten times confused and a hundred times apathetic. Who needs to think when Jared is dancing?

A song change occurs and the movements become more blatantly sexual. Soon enough, Jensen is fighting for his front row center spot. Some people—a mix of men and women—have started to reach up and offer dollar bills. The kid allows them to stick them in the top of his boots. The song changes yet again, with the volume raised so high Jensen can’t separate the throb of the music from the beat of his heart.

Confidently, the kid pulls Jensen up onto the conveyor belt, which is rocking from the people dancing on it. Then there are elegant hands on his face, pulling him in.

They don’t kiss.

Their noses touch and Jensen closes his eyes for a moment.

When he opens them, Jared’s dancing again, twisting and turning in those heels without any problem.

Jensen can’t believe it, but two seconds later, he’s dancing.

He probably looks exactly like how he feels: awkward white dude dancing. Fuck that. At lease his partner looks good enough for the both of them. His movements make the kid smile, if only slightly. He yanks Jensen near again and pulls a dollar bill from his left boot and a lighter from his top.

With his hips swinging, mouthing moving to the words of the song, eyes fixed on Jensen, the kid lights the dollar bill. When it is nothing more than a corner, he tosses it away.

There is a kiss this time. Who initiated it is unclear, at least to Jensen, but it is very clear who stops the kiss.

“Don’t,” is all the kid says before jumping down from the belt.

Jensen's breathing falters; his chest squeezes.

 

Too late. 


	4. Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kid turns up at Jensen's work and demands attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On my break from edits and a sequel, I'm working on this lovely verse. :D
> 
> Listen to "Darkness" and "Shelter Me" by Tab Benoit for this fic. You will not be disappointed! Tab is amazing.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Two customers had screamed at him about the temperature of their food, their silverware, the water not being Evian… and Jensen had only been an hour into his ten hour shift. Now two hours in and his orders keeping getting mixed up or coming out wrong and no one within a ten mile radius of the diner is happy. He thinks that might be Matt Damon under that Red Sox cap—who also keeps sending back his fucking tuna melt—but he can’t sure.

Every tip counts; not that it didn’t before but this is the first time Jensen has ever been short for rent. If someone by the grace of God leaves more than fifteen percent of their bill he nearly wants to hug them. And to the scumbags who leave a measly ten percent, he wishes they will be stuck in LA traffic twice as long as usual.

That’s not even thinking about the assholes that don’t leave tips.

He tries to be genuinely nice, he really does. But after a while smiling that much isn’t natural.

He spends his lunch break in the alley, sitting on an empty milk crate, licking his fingers after eating a surprisingly good burger. At least one thing goes right for him.

Break time over, he heads back inside to finish the remaining three hours of his shift. Before he goes back onto the floor he massages his jaw. How do flight attendants smile all the time? Washing his hands, grabbing a fresh apron and order pad, he resumes taking orders and getting customers glasses of water. It’d be better if more people drank soda or something besides water because it would up his tips. And, he thinks as he mindlessly enters an order in on the computer, for Los Angeles he thought people would actually cough up twenty dollar tips on a regular basis. So fucking wrong.

By hour ten his feet are killing him and he smells like grease and sweat. One of the waitresses giggles something about how she can make him sweaty for an entirely different purpose.

“By chasing after that ass? I don’t think so,” a cold voice interrupts. Jensen looks over and immediately starts to feel himself blush. The kid plops himself down at a booth meant for four and stretches out. He’s dressed somewhat normally this time—not like the outfit he had on the night before at the club.

The waitress looks over, marches up to the kid, and opens her mouth to give him a piece of her mind.

“Can it sister, I’ve already sucked his dick,” he snips dismissively before she can get a word out. “You’re not missing much anyway. I might as well have sucked on a Lifesaver. Better tasting, too.” He has the nerve to pick up a menu and order something, which the waitress doesn’t actually take. She shoves past Jensen and hides in the kitchen. Customers are staring but Jensen, at the moment, doesn’t care.

Holding his order pad out, pen ready, Jensen sighs. “Did you come here for any other reason than to trash talk my dick?”

This lights up the kid’s face. “Nope.”

“Great,” Jensen huffs. “What’ll it be?”

“Nothing. I don’t wanna eat here.”

“Alright… So…why _are_ you here?”

“We are going to have dinner together.”

“Nice try but I’m broke. We… uh… there’s noodles left over anyway.” He doesn’t want to say ‘home’ because he doesn’t entirely consider his studio home. Home has to be something else, something different.

Stretching back, the kid observes the now quiet diner. There won’t be another rush for a good two hours but Jensen still has to refill salt shakes and napkin holders before he leaves and wait on the two tables he’s still got left. Hazel eyes lock on his. “I’m paying.”

Jensen wants to argue, he really does. It’s the conservative Texan boy in him that wants to argue spending money on extravagant meals out while they could be spending it on rent. He also wants to know where this kid is getting the money to be so generous, but that’s also not really his business even if he wants to know. For a moment he feels like one of his mother’s church friends, fretting over shit that they shoved their noses in.

After he shudders, he leaves the kid to do his own thing as he finishes up.

 

Of all things, Jensen hadn’t expected this.

He had envisioned take out or fast food gotten to go and the rest of the night spent curled up on the bed watching that period drama. And a chance to put his feet up, of course.

First, the kid had grabbed his hand and pulled him in a half run down four blocks of busy sidewalk. Then they twisted through some smaller streets, into a part of Los Angeles that looked almost residential, more like Texas. Still holding hands, they reached a modest townhome, with iron rails and a gate out front. Jensen looked up the street—there were Mercedes and Audis here.

Looking back at the gate he noticed that there were tiny, delicate twinkle lights wrapped around them.

The kid opened the gate like he owned the place and marched them up to the front door and rang the bell, then knocked on the door. Still holding hands—Jensen wondered if he was as clammy and sweaty as he thought it was—they waited until the door was answered by a very tall, very buff Latino dude. Two whole inches taller than Jensen and six inches taller than the kid, he immediately swept forward and wrapped them both in a tight embrace.

“Jay baby! You’re right on time. And who is this?” their friendly host had asked, looking Jensen up and down. “My god, are you a model?”

Models did not spend ten hours hauling hot plates and trays around, unclogging one of the dishwashing machines and discovering that the problem was a chunk of day old raw meat.

The introductions were brief; Izzy was a friend and that’s all Jared said.

Through the nice digs—with a serious sound system, shit—they were led to the back patio, where there were even more twinkle lights.

“Jay baby says you’re a Texan boy,” Izzy had purred while sitting them down. “I hope you like meat.”

After the jokes about Jensen liking meat—haha very funny—they were served cold beers in fancy glasses. That hadn’t even been the best part. Two minutes later, four full slabs of ribs were set down on the table, like a scene from the Flintstones. _And_ a minute after that there was mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, cornbread, and fried apples.

Izzy disappeared for most of the meal, popping in only to check on them and refill their beers, but it was known that Izzy was a personal trainer on the weekdays and a gourmet line cook on the weekends, specializing in Cuban and Colombian food. He mentioned that it was nice to get a chance to cook gringo food, which Jay baby had requested.

Jensen ate until he was sure he would cry barbeque sauce.

He ate so much he had to unbuckle his belt.

He ate so much that the kid leaned over and pat his belly and cackled until Jensen swat at him.

Given only ten minutes to digest, the kid hauled him out of his seat and dragged him to the sidewalk again. Jensen tried to thank Izzy but the kid was insistent that they needed to leave or they’d be late. Izzy waved goodbye and shouted for Jensen to, “Watch yourself, Jay baby is serious!”

Jensen knew that wherever they were going had to be different because they took a cab to get there. The kid paid for the cab, peeling bills from a roll he had stuck in his hoodie pocket. He even tipped the driver.

All of that led them here.

He stares, mouth open.

“Like a god damned fish,” the kid snips at him, nudging Jensen’s jaw with a careful fist. “Shut your trap and lead the way.”

 

It’s a blues club.

The kinds Jensen always dreamed of going to but never really had the opportunity. The kinds of girls he dated in Texas were nice girls used to cozy suburban life. And his friends, well, they didn’t understand blues or jazz or gospel swamp water rock.

He never thought he’d come out to Los Angeles and find the blues.

Dimly lit as every good blues club should be, they weave their way through crowds and clusters of all kinds of people. It’s a tiny hole-in-the-wall joint, one that is only known for being a club because you can hear the music from the street. The kid grabs his hand again and sits them down at a miraculously free table, then orders two whiskeys like it’s no big deal.

Jensen looks at him, eyebrows raised in question.

With a shrug, the kid says, “I sucked the bouncer’s dick a few times and gave the waiter a hand job once.” Jensen notices that the waiter comes back and slips the kid a piece of paper, which he doesn’t read and tosses to the floor. At least the whiskey is top notch; they both drink it slow. The few lights that are on dim and a show starts. Everyone is crammed into each other, not much room to move. For a minute Jensen worries that this might bother the kid, but he doesn’t seem stressed and Jensen assumes that if he is he’ll say something about it. Hopefully.

While the band does a mic check and a final run through, the kid leans over, hazel eyes hard and closed off. His mouth is gorgeous but that’s not the point and Jensen knows it; the whiskey just leaves him feeling buttery and soft.

“You paid my bill.”

“Uh huh,” is all Jensen manages to blurt out in response, leaning back into his chair.

“I can’t pay you back,” the kid half snarls.

“Didn’t ask you to.”

“I won’t fuck you either.”

“Didn’t ask you to either.”

With a snort, the kid rolls his eyes. “Sooner or later everyone asks. If not in cash, in cock.” He takes a long drink of whiskey like there isn’t any burn.

Rather than argue, Jensen leans in, licks his lips, and murmurs, “I had a really nice time tonight.”

The kid’s eyes flit back and forth to Jensen’s lips and eyes and finally—finally—the kid blushes from something Jensen did instead of the other way around.

Before anything else can be said, the music starts.

He has a thing for Zeppelin, for bluegrass, for Garth Brooks, shit, even for some classical pieces. But there is something about Louisiana blues he can’t let go of.

It hooks into his chest and drags him forward, the way a cold glass leaves condensation on a table. It settles into his mind, onto the edge of his lips like smoke from a fresh cigarette. It burns as smooth as that whiskey and he always comes back for more.

The set starts off with something a little faster, more instrumental.

Then the performer—with a two piece band—slides into a cover of “Shelter Me” and Jensen is lost. He forgets where he is and who he’s with and he sings along, even though his voice isn’t nearly as gritty or deep enough for the blues. He can hit low notes for sure but he doesn’t have the years of whiskey or experience most blues singers have. But he knows all the words to this song and he’s full and warm and the kid’s hand is on his knee and they don’t have anywhere they have to be.

Hardly any break is given in between this song and the next. The club has filled to capacity.

Three songs and two glasses later, Jensen gets up.

He extends a hand to the kid, who takes it without question, and they inch over to the patch of space people are dancing in. Yeah, his feet hurt and he’s still uncomfortably full, but he doesn’t give any fucks when the kid is pressed against him and the tempo slows. Blue lights are on above them; it makes the kid’s eyes shine.

The song they dance to is full of heartbreak and darkness and pleading.

His hands are on the kid’s slim waist, while the kid has his arms wrapped around Jensen’s chest, hands on Jensen’s shoulders, rubbing slow circles in time with the music. They move together extremely well and Jensen hums to the guitar.

He knows something changes when the kid places his head on Jensen’s chest and sighs.

Back and forth, side to side, in the middle of twenty other couples dancing, they finish out the song. It’s languid and gloomy and Jensen feels tightness in his chest when he closes his eyes and listens to the lyrics. He can smell cigarettes and perfume and spilled drinks. But he can smell the kid too—laundry softener and peppermint and whiskey.

“You know I love you, but I did you wrong,” the singer belts out raggedly, voice loud and powerful on its own. “Please, please forgive me. Let’s walk side by side and fill in the darkness between you and I.”

Easy and fluid, they kiss.

He licks into the kid’s hot, wet mouth and prays that the whimper he makes isn’t mentioned after.

This time, Jensen pulls away.

The song ends.

Hesitantly, he pulls away from the kid, puts an inch of distance between them.

“Thank you,” he breathes and places his hands on the kid’s shoulders.

Another song starts up, this one more intense than the one before, obviously played for people going home tonight together. Jensen and the kid will leave together, and go to his studio, but Jensen doesn’t have plans for anything more than that. The kiss was searing; the taste of it lingering still. That’s plenty.

 

The lyrics from the last song stay with him as they melt into the lull of this song.

They’re filling in darkness.


	5. Tank Tops and Nail Polish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jensen has a day off and spends it with Jared, who shares something else with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've updated the tags a bit. :) 
> 
> I would love to see someone draw this version of Jared, sixteen and adorable in his panties and tank top and nail polish. ;w;
> 
> Fluffy chapters yay! This is a nice break.

It’s Jensen’s day off the next day since he couldn’t wheedle more hours from his manager and he still hasn’t gotten any callbacks. In theory, he should be out looking for any work at all, even something that paid cash under the table, but the nest of blankets he woke up in is too comfortable.

As he started to wake up he thought the bed seemed warmer than usual.

That was because the kid was plastered right next to him, arms and legs sprawled all over Jensen, snoring away with that mouth hung open just a fraction. Jensen tried to move because well, his arms were both asleep and he needed to pee. Nope. Impossible. The kid just moved right along with him.

A little more awake, Jensen realizes that he really needs to leave the bed before the kid wakes up. Even though there are some blankets tangled up between them and they are each in undershirts and boxers, Jensen’s erection is pressed right against the kid’s. Gently, he peels himself off the kid, placing a pillow in the kid’s arms as a placeholder, and stumbles over to the bathroom. Eventually, he ends up in the shower, cursing the small space of the studio, hoping that he isn't too loud.

Midway into jerking off, hand running over his cock firmly and squeezing every other stroke, he hears the kid knock and open the bathroom door.

“Uh,” is all Jensen can grunt before he began swearing at himself.

“I figured,” the kid says from the other side of the curtain. “But I really need to go and peeing in the sink is much less appealing.”

“You couldn’t wait, maybe?” Jensen grumbles in frustration. His cock should be wilting at the sound of the kid’s voice but it’s getting harder and twitching instead.

From the curtain, Jensen can see the kid sitting down and reading a magazine as he pees. “Dude, I’ve lived with you for almost a whole week. You think you’ve been some kind of quiet saint?” After a small pause the kid adds, “But… I… appreciate the discretion anyway.” Before Jensen can reply, the toilet is flushed and the shower water goes cold. He cusses and the kid cackles, shutting the bathroom door.

Pathetically enough, even with the cold water, Jensen still gets off.

 

For a few hours they lay in bed and watch the period drama on Jensen’s laptop. The kid has his own iTunes account and Jensen flips through it while the kid fishes through the laundry basket.

“If I do something, do you… do you promise not to flip out?” the kid asks, back to Jensen.

Finding a stash of blues songs, Jensen looks up and nods.

“And… uh…” the kid’s usual confident speech is quiet and hesitant. “Do you promise not to try anything?”

Sitting up, Jensen clears his throat. “Of course.” He feels like he’s going to have to call his sister sometime soon. He prays that whatever the kid is going to do doesn’t turn out to be an opportunity for Jensen to be an asshole. Pushing the laptop out of the way, he watches the kid toss off the clothes he’s wearing. Completely naked, the kid stands and faces Jensen, watching him for a reaction.

“You’re gonna get a cold,” Jensen blurts out.

The kid laughs, dimples apparent.

Jensen takes small, quick looks. There are still some bruises and scrapes that are healing and for some reason he wishes he could touch them. It confuses Jensen that someone very attractive is naked in front of him and he isn’t thinking about anything sexual.

That’s nothing compared to what the kid does next.

A simple pair of purple panties is put on, hitched up the kid’s long, smooth legs, sitting on his hips snugly. Next up is a loose fitting white tank top with stringy straps that barely stay on the kid’s shoulders.

In these clothes, simple as they are, the kid looks comfortable. But he’s also carefully watching Jensen.

“You aren’t gonna go all Texan on me, are you?” the kid asks, sitting down beside him.

There is the momentary urge to ask the kid why such an attractive guy would ever want to wear girl’s clothes. Why he thinks that he has to do this. An ugly word surfaces in Jensen’s mind and luckily, he stomps it out immediately. But it’s there and he’s guilty of thinking about it, even if briefly.

His own beliefs seem ridiculous to him at the moment, sitting on the bed with the kid.

All throughout his school years he was made fun of by his classmates for being pretty. His features and the few modeling gigs he had done were the subject of ridicule and mockery. The jocks never took him seriously and the girls all assumed he would be easy. Until he started fucking shit up and doing things he would later be less than proud of, everyone assumed he was just a pretty boy. And if he showed the slightest bit of anything but masculinity, of Texan machismo, people wrote him off.

So he doesn’t understand why any guy would willingly put themselves in a situation like that.

But it all seems so petty.

It’s just them in a studio in a shitty part of Los Angeles.

“Can we watch the rest now?” he asks honestly, moving the laptop over so it’s in front of them.

With a small smile, the kid nods.

Half way through the last episode, when Elizabeth and Darcy are speaking about their engagement, the kid reaches over and holds Jensen’s hand.

He doesn’t understand completely—there are a lot of things he’s going to ask about and look up and probably fret over—but he feels like this is a good start.

 

Later that day they go out for a walk. Dinner is two hot dogs each from a street vendor Jared assures Jensen is “cool.”

The kid eats two large chili dogs with onions and cheese, a bag of chips, and half of Jensen’s second hot dog.

Licking his fingers clean from chili, the kid laughs as Jensen gives him a friendly punch on the shoulder.

The rest of the night is spent wandering around the neighborhood, never straying more than a few blocks from the studio. As they walk, the click of the kid’s heels sound on the pavement. In between sessions of rolling around on the bed and getting ready to go out, the kid painted his nails black. And now, as they’re outside, he’s dressed in the same boots Jensen met him in, a threadbare shirt, and denim shorts that Jensen hesitates to describe as Daisy Dukes.

“Quit checking out my ass,” the kid snips with a sharp smile.

“Quit having a nice ass,” Jensen mumbles back, stops and looks up. There aren’t any stars in Los Angeles. It’s one thing he misses about Texas in general. Even with the pollution there he could still see stars.

“No,” the kid says, grabbing Jensen’s chin with strong, elegant fingers. Their eyes lock. The kid looks determined but pouty. Jensen smiles easy. “Keep looking at me.”

“Sure.”

It’s not a bad day off.


	6. Patrick's Solo Album Totally Counts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into how they're doing two weeks after their reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a LOT of schmoop here. Just warning you. This won't be the overall tone of the fic, but I wanted to start off with a happier setting.
> 
> If you're familiar with Fall Out Boy/Patrick Stump, you'll get all the lyrics. If you're not, maybe give 'em a listen! These are the tracks:   
> *Sugar, We're Goin' Down  
> *Alone Together  
> *Coast (It's Gonna Get Better)
> 
> All lyrics belong to their owners. 
> 
> I loved the idea of Jared being a FOB fan and even more loved the idea of Jensen knowing the lyrics anyway. 
> 
> More to come, thanks for the great feedback on this! Comments and kudos are always appreciated. <3

Two weeks after their informal introduction, Jensen arrived to an empty apartment.

Going out to look for the kid, Jensen soon realized he had no idea where to start. So, he waited on the stoop of the apartment complex, right leg bouncing anxiously. They had to have a serious conversation and Jensen hated having serious conversations. Somehow they had managed to avoid having A Talk, mostly by watching kung-fu movies from the eighties or Jennifer Anniston rom-coms.

Thirty minutes dragged by.

About to give up and head back inside, he heard the kid approach.

The sound of those heels on the sidewalk was unmistakable. The sound of their pace made Jensen bristle; was he running from someone? Immediately, Jensen stood up, shoulders back, fists clenched. However, he only saw the kid running in six inch, cherry leather stilettos, as if it were the most casual activity in the world.

Slightly out of breath, the kid stopped two feet away from Jensen.

“What?” he snipped.

Jensen shrugged, relaxing. “Nothin’. You always go for a run in those?”

The kid looked at his shoes and gave a small smile. He swung his hips as he elegantly climbed the stairs, sashaying impressively past Jensen. That smile came easy and that stride came naturally. They would walk up three flights of narrow stairs, tumble into the apartment they had to legally vacate within a week, and spend the afternoon eating too many gummy worms and arguing over what to watch next (anything but another Anniston movie— _anything_ ).

A Talk could wait. For the moment, Jensen was basking. Heels were a good thing. Heels meant self-confidence. They meant healing; even someone like Jensen could acknowledge that.

Jared waited at the door to the complex for Jensen to catch up, turning to say, “This is the road to ruin and we’re starting at the end.”

Jensen shook his head, leisurely making his way up.

“I don’t know where I’m going, but do you have room for one more troubled soul?”

“Quit singing that shit to me.”

A wink and a smirk. “Am I more than you bargained for yet?”

A groan and a sigh. “Nope.”

An arm around his waist, friendly and familiar already. A head on his shoulder as they stood there for a moment, the key in Jensen’s hand. Initiated touch was a respectable step forward.

“Sugar, we’re going down swingin’,” the kid murmured, closing his eyes, long eyelashes resting on faintly pink cheeks.

A Talk could wait. Fuck talking about serious shit. Fuck talking about the rent, their inevitable eviction, what they were going to do past next week, what they were going to do forever and ever, what it would mean to leave Los Angeles or stay.

Shirking responsibilities already; Jensen was in deep.

“It’s gonna get better. We’re gonna keep livin’, we’re gonna get by.”

There was a solid punch to Jensen’s left arm. “That’s not fair. That’s from Patrick’s solo album, you fucking hypocrite.”

Opening the door, letting the kid in first, Jensen couldn’t help his own smile, shooting back a quick, “It’s not my fault, I’m a maniac.”

Dimples out, Jared squealed, “No! Oh my god! You didn’t! Let’s be alone together!”

“This is the road to ruin…”

“And we’re starting at the end!”

Shit, he was so fucked.


	7. of Your Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Talk about rent has consequences Jensen is not prepared for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update, this is in the correct order.

The Talk does not go well.

The kid leaves for two days and comes back with a black eye and a busted lip. He throws a wad of bills at Jensen’s feet and leaves again.

Jensen doesn’t pay the rent with that money.

He gives the landlord every cent he’s made from his ten hour shifts and even though it’s not enough, the landlord turns a blind eye because Jensen has made his rent payments on time every month up until now. He tells Jensen that he’s been a good tenant but even good tenants only get a one week extension.

There’s one callback but it’s for porn and even though he needs the money, he just can’t bring himself to do it. That’s not the way he wanted to break into acting. Posing for modeling gigs with his shirt off bothered him enough; he can’t imagine anything more extreme. And that’s how he ends up on his bed, spaced out and silently crying, realizing that he doesn’t know jack shit about the kid, where he came from, what he’s been through, and what he’s still going through.

For all of the odd moments of discomfort and inconvenience in his life, he’s led a relatively cushy, secluded one. And he could have that all back, too, all he has to do is pick up the phone. He’d be flown back to Texas first class on the next plane.

The nest of blankets in the corner of the room mocks him.

The sound of the door being forced open shocks him.

“Ugh,” the kid grumbles and walks in, heels clacking. His hair is all messed up, like someone tried to rip a chunk of it out. “You’re here moping. That’s fucking fantastic.”

Without another word, he starts undressing. His body is covered in deep purple bruises, with one red welt on his ass. Silently, he sheds his clothes, grabs a towel from the basket and goes to the bathroom.

Jensen stays on the bed. He observes a small plastic bag the kid brought in with him. It looks like a boutique bag. After fifteen minutes, the kid steps out of the bathroom, wrapped up in the towel. He picks up the bag and tosses it at Jensen, who catches it.

“Open it,” the kid commands, drying his hair with a smaller towel.

It’s a very delicate bag, obviously from some shop in Beverly Hills. Jensen carefully opens it and lifts out the contents: a charcoal gray, lacy night gown. It’s simple but cut extremely well, with fabric and detail put into it that screams quality. He manages to see a designer name somewhere.

The towel is dropped and the kid stands in front of Jensen, naked, without any embarrassment, scars and bruises and all.

“Jensen,” the kid speaks, his tone a confusing mix of soft and hard. “Why didn’t you pay the rent with my money?”

He takes a deep breath and looks up at the kid. “That’s your money. This is my apartment. It’s… my responsibility.”

“Was my money not good enough?” the kid asks, with a vulnerability in his voice Jensen is sure he doesn’t mean to expose.

Jensen sets the nightgown down on his lap, looks away, then looks back at Jared. “No, Jared, it wasn’t that. It’s your money, you earned it. It’s in a sock under the mattress.”

The sock is pulled out by the kid and he counts every single dollar bill. It’s all there. He tosses the sock over by the laundry basket and sits next to Jensen on the bed. Even when the kid is angry, his movements are elegant. “I don’t need to be saved, Jensen. I don’t want to be your fixer-upper. I’m not someone you are gonna be able to take home to momma. I’m not someone who is gonna stick around for a long time.”

There’s more sadness in Jensen’s tone than he wants to admit when he replies, “I know.”

“Good.”

There’s a moment of silence that stretches between them, uncomfortable and piercing.

Finally, the kid breaks it.

“I want you to dress me in this,” he commands, voice firm and unwavering. “And I want you to fuck me like you’d fuck the girl of your dreams.”

“I…”

“Nope, you don’t get to talk,” the kid snips, standing up again. “I want you to fuck me like that right now.”

Jensen nods. He holds the nightgown once more.

But it doesn’t protect him from what the kid says next.

“I want that and then I’m going to leave and you’re not going to look for me. You’re going to call your sister or whoever it is you talk to at night when you think I’m asleep and you’re going to go back to Texas because you don’t belong here. And you’re gonna start there, all over again, and I’m gonna read about you in the papers one day. But you don’t ever get to come back here.”

That’s it.

That’s all the kid says before he places a gentle hand on the side of Jensen’s face.


	8. Switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jensen fulfills a request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sex in this chapter!**
> 
> Phew!/fans self/
> 
> Uhm, several things. Genderqueer/gender fluid Jared switches pronouns according to how they feel. To respect that, she/her pronouns are used in this chapter. Jensen himself is using she/her pronouns, which says something about how much he's willing to learn and shows his respect for Jared, even if he doesn't completely understand.
> 
> Second, I'm not sure whether I should tag this M/F also? Maybe I'll think about that later on. 
> 
> Third, it's really important to me to show there's consent. It's a big decision for Jared to sleep with someone considering what happened not too long ago. I think Jensen realizes that.

The nightgown fits her perfectly.

Like it was made just for her.

He lifted it over her and slowly eased it down, fingers following the fabric down. Carefully, he smoothed it out, adjusted it a fraction, and then ran his hands down her sides, fingering the lacy hem that hung at her thighs. She shivers as he now stands close and leans down for a kiss. It’s a simple kiss but it’s also sweet, and Jensen feels his heart beat pick up when he realizes she is kissing back.

With reverent hands and fingers, he cups her face and pulls them closer together so that they are chest to chest. He works her mouth open, taking his time, indulging in the feeling of his mouth pressed against hers. Small whimpers are heard; her eyes are fluttering and she’s blushing as they separate. Jensen sits on the bed and pulls her into his lap, where she fits just fine.

He can’t get enough of how smooth her thighs are or the way she tastes or the pure smell of her. He kisses her deep, then light, and deep again, biting down on her lip. His mouth moves and she gasps when he bites down on a spot on her neck; he leaves a mark there. Kisses are placed up the long line of her throat and before he knows it, their mouths are pressed together once more. Her hands are gripping onto his shoulders and he has his hands on her ass, groping and tugging her forward, grinding the hard line of his cock in his jeans against the soft silk of the nightgown.

When she thinks he might break, he doesn’t.

Instead, he lays her out on his bed.

She turns from him; he doesn’t mind.

He kisses her until her attention is back, until she’s looking up at him with trust in her eyes.

Her hand is on his cheek, she rubs her thumb over his cheek; he noses into her hand and kisses her palm.

Thank you.

He means it.

Taking every care, he works her open with his mouth first, tongue hot and eager. He could do this for hours just for her; he’s enthusiastic and a fast learner. Fingers or hands don’t touch her, but he slips his lips over her clit and suckles one, two, three times. Slipping back down, he slides her tongue into her as far as he can, moaning as she moves over him, breathe hitching and chest rising.

At the end of her patience, when her whimpers are moans, he sits up. Quickly, he undresses, shucking off his clothes and tossing them away. He keeps her nightgown on. He reaches for supplies and takes his time, stroking himself and thrusting into his hand until she mewls and shifts her hips. With a smirk, he rips open the foil and rolls the condom over his cock. Lube is applied generously; he doesn’t want to hurt her. Gradually he works himself inside her, slipping past and sliding in, fitting with a burn and a drag that make him groan.

He takes a few deep breaths, keeping his hips still, feeling his cock twitch and swell as he waits for her to adjust to him. She tosses her head, wraps her legs around his waist, and opens her mouth to let out a loud, long moan. When she breathes out, she opens for him. He sighs and dips his head down so he can kiss her neck. The signal to start moving is an impatient drag of her nails over his shoulder blades.

A rhythm is selected; his hips move easy.

Thick inside her, he feels every way she responds.

When he finds a spot that causes her to whine and claw at his back, he steadies the blunt head of his cock against it, fucking her in tight circles. More lube is added and soon enough, every thrust inside her produces an audible squelch. She’s wet and hot and tight against his cock; she makes him work.

Altering the rhythm and intensity of his thrusting, the bed squeaks.

He places his mouth near hers, kissing each dimple, arching his back and groaning into her collarbone as she makes herself tighter, increases the pressure over his cock. Pounding into her, pushing them into the mattress, he hears his balls slapping against her ass. She reaches behind him and gropes his ass, pulling him desperately closer.

He wants to flip her so she’s on top, so he can see her riding him, but she has a different idea. Wordlessly, she moves them so that he’s fucking her from behind. She’s on her stomach and her hips are lifted and he’s watching his cock disappear inside her.

Chest to back they move together.

Careful but rough, he plunges into her, feeling his cock swell and his balls draw up.

A mistake is made.

He reaches to touch her. His hand is smacked away.

She gives a clear, firm, “No.”

“I’m sorry,” he replies in a murmur, kissing the back of her neck.

Reaching his limit, he wants to make her come before him. He changes the angle of his thrusts and starts fucking her in long, deep strokes, hitting that spot every time. She’s screaming, begging, writhing and bucking against him. Working hard, he mounts her, gets a better angle with more leverage, and drives her over. He feels her first orgasm rip through her, nearly coming himself, and pounds into her until she’s gasping and tossing her head back. She reaches behind her, grabs a chunk of his hair, pushes her hips back against him, and comes loudly for a second time, crying out through it.

He hasn’t even turned her over. He hasn’t even had a chance to kiss her for hours.

It’s not enough and at the same time it is enough for him to come, cock shooting hard.

 

He’d like to make her come like that every time.

If only he could.


	9. You Like Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A decision is reached and Jensen discovers something he's been hoping to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... rewrite time! Bear with me.

The next morning, the kid was still there. When Jensen asked, all he got was a pillow to the face.

“I changed my mind,” the kid grumbled and burrowed further under the covers. “Go to work.”

“You changed your mind?” Jensen echoed, fumbling around the room in a hurry to get to his shift. “Why?”

“I’ve decided to move in.”

Of course, Jensen can't help the scoff that escapes him. It's a Southern thing. “After all this time you’ve decided to move in.”

“Jesus Christ, Jensen, go to work! I’m tired. Bring me back a cheeseburger.”

He was about to scoot out because he was cutting it close--he'd been awake for longer but couldn't pry himself out of bed--but decided against it. There was one thing he wanted to do. Walking up to the bed he loudly announced, “Oh no, your cranky ass shut off gravity! Help!” He promptly fell on top of the kid, becoming a large, immovable dead weight. The kid nearly screamed, swatting at and bucking against Jensen. He only eased up when he finally heard the kid laugh.

Before he left, Jensen lingered at the door, fingers tapping at the frame. From the bed, hazel eyes peeked out from under the blankets, sharp and alert.

“I’m glad you decided to move in.”

“Pfft, sure. Not like this is our place for much longer anyway.”

He nodded and shrugged. “Yeah, I guess, but… it’s our place.”

“Get the fuck out of here you’re gonna be late. God. I didn’t know you were so damn mushy.”

“You like me,” Jensen teased with a smile. “Ha… you fuckin’ like me.”

“Don’t push your luck,” was the last thing he heard before shutting the door to their place.


	10. The Phoenix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jensen is made an offer; he wants something else instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAM. REWRITE.
> 
> this isn't like 1000x better but it's better, in my opinion, that what i had before. 
> 
> this fic was really SUPER difficult to finish because somewhere in the middle i got bored and distracted with other projects (sigh) and was too caught up in "does this sound right?" kind of stuff. but you know, if everything i wrote was perfect then writing wouldn't be so fun. 
> 
> i like this ending a lot better. hope y'all do too. i'm very glad y'all have loved this verse. we'll see if i do something else with a genderqueer aspect. thanks for reading!

It started to happen at the diner, where Jensen was more focused on how he was going to come up with the rest of the rent money than he was on serving maybe-Matt Damon his order. He could work three days straight in the diner and still not half enough to cover it. No amount of Southern charm would milk out enough tips. He needed a gig but nothing had come up, not even a bit part. He had no idea how anyone could make a quick hundred dollars in cash; suburban life in Texas hadn’t prepared him for that.

There were multiple times when he considered ripping the hat off of maybe-Matt Damon and seeing if he could loan a fellow actor a couple of hundred dollars—or he would pour ketchup on his sandwich.

Of course maybe-Matt Damon had to leave a five dollar tip on a two dollar ticket—all he got was a milkshake, surprisingly—and Jensen felt bad for thinking about sort of extorting him. He picked up the five and tucked it away carefully, wishing that this was that one movie his mother used to watch about a waitress and a cop who won the lottery and her tip was half. Jensen cleaned up the table slowly, what does it matter how fast he moves in this place anymore, and knew that it was a Nicholas Cage movie but damned if he could remember the title of it.

As if sensing he had thought about her, his mother called that evening, concerned and always judgmental about how he chose to live his life. Most of their conversation consisted of:

“That’s no place for a good Southern boy to live.”

And then there was the ever famous: “Why don’t you come home.” That was always followed by: “You’re not involved in anything...bad…are you, Jensen?”

How could he possibly reply to that? He took the phone call because he felt guilty for shutting her out completely, knowing that she had good intentions, and well, she wasn’t his father so he should be able to talk to her. And he missed her. He did; there were a lot of things about Texas that he missed like open spaces and clean air and good BBQ. But he also answered because someone shoved the phone at him.

“She’s the only mother you’ve got,” Jared grumbled, rolling over in bed. Their sheets were clean now but they still smelled like a combination of them. When Jensen had arrived from work, the studio was clean again, scrubbed from top to bottom. All of his clothes had been washed and folded, though Jensen had no idea why the kid chose spending money on laundry over buying something to eat. He had just flopped onto his— _their_ —bed to rest a while before going over the newspaper when his mother called. When Jensen picked up, the kid started painting his nails, joining Jensen on the bed, taking out a small, purple toiletries case and starting to work. He watched elegant fingers work efficiently, and pretended not to be watching when the kid looked up.

Yes, he was involved in something bad.

The smirk, the lazy touches, the look the first thing in the morning, the way the kid fit perfectly against him without anything having to happen. The comfortable silences, the ability for Jensen to brood without being disturbed but still kept company with. The way whenever it rained, the kid hummed “The Itsby Bitsy Spider.” The bruises that needed no explanation; Jensen just wanted to heal them. The concern he had even when it made no sense. How there were more than a few times when he wanted to keep Jared inside the apartment and never let him out again—but that was silly because Jared knew more than enough how to survive. The realization that Jensen himself was the one who needed help surviving.

It was as bad as that feeling in his chest, the squeeze, the hitch in his breath.

The simplicity in counting the moles that dotted the kid’s face and neck.

None of that could he explain in words—especially not to his mother—but thinking about them made him smile. While he spoke to his mother, assuring her that yes, he was eating three meals a day (one and a half), bathing regularly (eh), and keeping safe (also eh), one freshly pedicured foot appeared on his chest. Both of them laying down on Jensen’s bed, the kid propped his foot up and looked at Jensen expectantly. With a small sigh, Jensen took the bottle of nail polish offered and started painting toes as his mother talked on about some kind of church activity.

“You should go to church more often out there sweetie,” she said, her tone a little snippy. “I’m sure there are a lot of folks there who could use the prayers.”

He had set her on speakerphone so he could tend to his new salon responsibilities. He looked up and met the kid’s eyes. Of course the kid pointed at himself with a smirk and a wiggle of his toes. “Yeah momma,” Jensen breathed out, “I’m sure they could.”

Before she let him go she insisted that he should make plans to come home soon, and to call his father more often. He nearly escaped unscathed—until he heard movement and his father came on the line.

“Son, I don’t hear good things from out West.” This was said in Alan’s professional businessman voice, the tone of which Jensen had grown up with his entire life, except on rare occasions when Alan actually felt like being a person.

“Things like what, sir?” Jensen asked, trying not to sound disrespectful but also trying not to hang up the phone. He didn’t feel like dealing with his father. His mother he could always talk to; his father was a different story. There were certain expectations for Jensen.

“There are certain expectations for you Jensen, and I’m not hearing that any of them are being met.”

Fuck.

The kid started to pull his foot back but Jensen kept a firm hold on the kid’s ankle and shook his head. He could do this. It was possible to speak with his father and continue what he had been doing. Alan went on about strategic, conservative planning for Jensen’s future, and what he would do with the rest of his life. Jensen and the kid had the rent to worry about—the rest of their lives could wait.

“Sir, I need four hundred dollars to make my rent this month.” His heart nearly stopped when he realized what he had blurted out but it was too late to take anything back. Even the kid looked stunned. Jensen set aside the nail polish, careful not to spill. He waited for a minute before he heard his father speak again.

“That was _not_ what I was expecting to hear from you Jensen Ross. You may have that money if you agree to come back home and figure your business out here, under our roof.”

The kid tumbled out of bed and quickly padded over to the bathroom, shutting the door firmly.

Double fuck.

Sitting up, Jensen scrubbed at his face. For a minute, he could see it clearly. His father was being stern now but his mother would soothe him and if Jensen agreed to this, he would be e-mailed a plane ticket home, first class no doubt. All he had to do was say yes and he would never have to clean up dirty tables or be screamed at by tourists because they wanted medium, not medium well, again. One word guaranteed him a comfortable living; no more dingy studio, no more mattress on the floor, no more walking up five flights of stairs, no more strange smells in the hallway or that mysterious smell of pumpkin spice that floated in at noon on Fridays and left by noon on Sundays but only every other week. No more greasy burgers or frozen pizza or ramen or ramen omelets or ramen stir fry.

He could make Texas seem promising.

He might be able to spin something poetic about open skies and clean air and summers on a ranch.

But he knew.

Texas was not a place for the kid, even in a place like Richardson.

It would stifle him, it would take the glimmer and the smirk away, whittle it down until the kid was wearing cashmere sweaters and sipping sweet tea from china.

And it wasn’t his place to ask the kid to come with him just so Jensen wouldn’t be alone.

Then there was that voice in his head that told him Texas wasn’t a place for him, not anymore. He had to move forward or everything those guys said would be true; everything he feared he would be in ten years would happen to him in a matter of months. His future could be a fake blond wife, a nice house, a set of china they used once a year, boring sex, and vacations to Miami because there was nothing else to do. Maybe one day he could have a nice house and not have to worry so much about where money might come from; but he wanted that with dimples and cuss words and strappy tank tops and unpredictable ventures into the ever beating heart of Los Angeles.

So he held fast. “No thank you, sir.”

It was tempting to say more—tell his father that he was not as straight as anyone thought, tell him that he knew a very nice drag queen that cooked gourmet meals on weekends as favors to their friends, tell him that sometimes someone two floors down played old Guns ‘n Roses albums on a turntable and whenever it rained he could count on “November Rain” being played at full blast and he would bet anyone ten dollars that there was a story there, tell him that one of the best things about Los Angeles was that even though everyone was wrapped up in their own lives, there were still decent folk out here. People who took you to secret blues clubs and slow danced with you. People who ate all the food you didn’t finish and then some. People who wore your Cowboys sweater and a tiny, skimpy skirt under it, looking like model material in the most natural and effortless way. People who memorized where he lived even though he had paid and they didn’t have any business with each other afterwards. People who had set out his guitar, dug it out of the bottom of the laundry pile, and propped it up with care. People who mentioned that survival was for those who wanted it badly enough. People who painted their finger nails black and their toe nails sparkly blue.

A kid with a star tattooed on their left ankle.

Jensen bet there was a story there.

And he wanted to find it out.

If there was time, he could share some of his.

So he hung up and tossed his phone aside, ignoring the subsequent calls, and grabbed his guitar.

He no longer cared about proving anyone wrong.


End file.
